Your talk, my dear Madam, is surely too hard, And, believe me, it vexes me inly, That the Sense and the Rhyme should divide your poor Bard, In praise of the beautiful Linley.
By poetical Licence, permit me to change Two Letters, before I begin it The Fiction is easy; confess it not strange To call this sweet Warbler a Linnet.
Still, still, for my Purpose all Language is weak, And the Metre — I can't discipline it: No Words can I find, e'er so long tho' I seek, To express all I feel for my Linnet.
Ye Bards! who make Verse to your Mistress' Brow, And in sad woful Ballads who hymn it, Oh! grant me some Language; some Metre allow, To sing the bright Charms of my Linnet.
Your Captive too soon felt your Power, for sure Your Eyes are the Meshes which in-net; Your Soul-thrilling Voice the Decoy to allure All Hearts, my adorable Linnet.
The fam'd Golden Pippin, the Goddess's Meed, Were Music and Beauty to win it, No Paris to Venus the Prize had decreed, But to thee my dear amiable Linnet.
The Savage, when first struck by th' Notes of th' Lyre, Ee'n fancied the Deuce was within it; And, surely, some Angel, I think, must inspire The Form of my ravishing Linnet.
The Pencil of Reynolds some Graces may steal, But her Voice — ah! unless he can limn it, His Colours in vain wou'd the Image reveal Of the bright, the melodious Linnet.
Thus, Madam, you see I've exhausted my Rhyme, So lengthen'd, so fine-drawn, no more I can spin it; Then dismiss me, I pray, nor to Measure confine The Raptures I feel for my Linnet.
